


Searching For Spring

by fw_feathers (mia826)



Category: Warcraft (2016)
Genre: 10 percent lore for the heck of it, 90 percent movieverse, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Gen, M/M, Past Character Death, also it stuck so there, finally the infamous 'fantasy au', is it major character death if the said characters are already dead before the story starts?, someone once told me calling it that is redundant but i call em how i see em, world building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-09-20 00:56:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9468299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia826/pseuds/fw_feathers
Summary: The winter started ten years ago.





	1. Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by: [Magic](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_tZzlqkIQlU) by Mystery Skulls

Lothar can still remember a time when flowers bloomed along the hills around Stormwind, and the trees of Elwynn Forest were laden with fruit aplenty. He had been a young man then, eager to hunt; to draw his sword and fight off imaginary barbarians from the mountains to the East. His best friend, Crown Prince Llane, and his sister Taria had finally gotten their act together and married that year. His wife had been alive yet. It had been a happy time.

The first sign that something was wrong came during the Snowsend festival. Every year the citizens of Stormwind came together to await the burst of light to the east. Back then, it had been the duty of the Guardian of Azeroth to gather the magic of the Font in Karazhan, make the pilgrimage to the Temple across Elwynn Forest, and there release the magic that would banish winter and usher in spring. But on that day, ten years ago, no light shone on the horizon. No sun rose over the walls of Stormwind Keep.

It’s rare to see the sun come out nowadays.

Lothar presses his body into the shadow of a rock, shielding himself from the incoming rush of wind and snow. He uses the moment to take a breather, tilting his head back to rest against the cold stone. Around him, the wind screams through the crags, tugging at frosted strands of hair. It howls like his very presence in its domain offends it, striving to throw him to the ground far below, the moment he lets down his guard.

Deadwind Pass isn’t living up to its name, he thinks to himself wryly. The humor of a dying man. He shivers in his cloak, trying to get some form of sensation back into his limbs. He can’t turn back now.

_Do it for Llane. Do it for Taria. Do it for Stormwind._

_Do it for Callan._

He steps back onto the path.

Ten years since the sun last shone down on Azeroth. Ten years since fruit stopped growing on the trees. Ten years since the name Gul’dan was first uttered, with whispers of slaughtered families and stolen children, an army marching in the dark, whole villages gone in a night and only emaciated corpses left in the ashes.

Ten years since the Fel.

He puts one foot in front of the other. It doesn’t matter that every hero or warrior they had sent had never returned. His hands pull the hood of his cloak closer to his face. As if the fact that he can’t feel his nose anymore still means something. No. Someone needed to find out what happened to the Guardian. That’s what he had said to Taria, when the call came and Callan was taken away.

He reaches up and digs his fingers into the rock face.

Six days for the caravan to reach the Temple. It took Lothar two to ride to Deadwind Pass. Four days ‘til Gul’dan receives the sacrifices. Another day spent, climbing through the snow and ice.

Three days to save Callan.

He puts one foot. In front of the other.

Someone needed to find out what happened to the Guardian. Someone _has_ to.

How long has it been? He knows it’s bad when he can no longer feel the cold on his face. His fingers are cracked and covered in red. He’s heard that the cold can make you hallucinate when you’re near death. He almost feels warm now.

A garden rises around him.

Wildflowers sway at his passing. There’s a plant that looks like a small fern. It curls away from his hand when he brushes against it by accident. Instead of the harsh bite of the winter wind, a soft, sweet breeze caresses his face. The very sky is a shimmering gold. Is this Paradise? Has he already died, to wake in the Light’s arms?

There’s a figure in the distance. It stands, enveloped in long, sweeping robes – mouth open in surprise.

Lothar opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. He tries to step forward. His legs refuse to work. Somehow, he ends up on the ground.

The last thing he sees are wide brown eyes in a halo of golden light.

* * *

 

Khadgar doesn’t know how long he’s been in Karazhan. The sky does not change under the golden dome of Spring. He wanders the mansion grounds, still clothed in the robes he wore during his first Rite of the Equinox.

He does not grow hungry, though he can consume food. He does not need rest, and only sleeps to pass the time.

It is an empty existence.

He has, astoundingly, consumed all the books the castle has to offer. He has no need to clean, because the Guardian’s golden golems take care of that. Some days, he just wanders Karazhan’s extensive gardens, moving amongst the flowers and trees. The wildlife has gotten so used to him that sometimes, when he forgets to move from his seat, a butterfly perches on his shoulder.

He does not know how much time has passed. Only that he must never leave this place.

Then the frozen man appears at the edge of the woods.

Khadgar knows everything that happens in Karazhan. From the movement of the golems to the budding of a new flower, he knows it all. And so, when the frozen man crosses the barrier, he rises from his seat in the gardens, his gaze turned unerringly in that direction.

His first reaction is hope. Hard, and painful, like a rock lodged in his throat, he dreams that the man is a messenger, come to tell him about Gul’dan’s defeat. No servant of the Fel can cross the mansion’s borders. Surely, it means that Gul’dan is dead. That there is no need for him to hide anymore.

The man’s lips move. Even from where he stands, Khadgar can see the rivulets of red snaking their way from the cracks in the pale flesh. The man tries to take a step, and falls.

Khadgar is running before he realizes it. He falls to his knees beside the man, grasping his face with both hands. “Hey! _Hey!_ ”

They are the first words he’s spoken to another human being in a long, long time.

He catches a glimpse of bright, blue eyes before they roll up into the man’s head, and the man goes limp. Fear has been Khadgar’s constant companion, but in this moment it is as if he is tasting its bitter tang for the first time. The man is still breathing, but even Khadgar knows that he is mere steps away from death’s door.

Khadgar closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath, centering himself, and sinks into the well of power he holds inside him. He focuses, making sure to take only as much as he needs. The magic leaps for the tiny opening he made, wanting out out _out,_ but he clamps his it down. Drawing what he took like a string from his gut and up his throat, Khadgar presses his forehead against the frozen man’s and _breathes._

A golden mist leaves his lips in a swirl of magical light. It hovers between them for a moment. Then, with the man’s next inhale, it rushes inside him, flooding his skin with its light. The man takes a deep, shuddering breath, then exhales with a sigh. Khadgar doesn’t let go of his face, watching from up close how the color returns to his skin. His breathing evens out. The cracks on his dried lips slowly heal. Only then does Khadgar pull his hands away.

Then the spasms start. With a choked-off cry, he curls in on himself, hugging his ribs as the fire inside him rages for control. The magic twists inside him, seeking every crack and every weakness. He bows his head and _breathes._ His body trembles with the effort of keeping Spring inside.

At last, the attack ends. Sweat drips down his face. He stays like that a moment longer, trying to catch his breath. The throbbing in his bones is reduced to its usual quiet, yet still unbearable hum. He gets up stiffly, groaning. The stranger slumbers, the lines on his face easing in his peace. Khadgar glances at the man, taking in the long, brown hair and pale skin. Then he turns towards the mansion and calls out: “Duster!”

It takes a moment for a golden golem to appear at the door of the mansion. The humanoid creature strides towards them, the solid gold that forms its body rippling in the dome’s artificial sunlight. “Please pick him up and bring him to the guest chambers,” Khadgar instructs it. Without a word nor any sign of strain, the golem stoops, slips its arms under the man’s shoulders and lifts him.

Khadgar strides ahead, moving at twice the pace to overtake the six-foot creation. He doesn’t dare use Blink, not when he’s still recovering from his earlier magic use, so he walks as fast as he can back to the mansion. It only takes a thought to send Flora and Sweep to set up the guest room, and Cook to prepare a meal in the kitchen.

Khadgar’s long ceremonial robes sweep behind him, making him look like he’s flying through the corridors. His feet feel just as light. He makes it to the guest room in record time and supervises Flora and Albert’s work, even though they need no guidance in making a bed. Duster arrives, and at Khadgar’s behest sets the man down on the bed. There, Khadgar strips him of unnecessary clothes, setting the man’s beautiful sword aside with care. He takes care of the injuries magic could not, and tucks the man in himself, his touch gentle on the worn clothes. His hand lingers on his face.

Flora brings in Cook’s food, placing the tea tray on the table by the fire. The clink of ceramic is enough to yank Khadgar out of his daze. Feeling flustered, and unsure why, Khadgar moves to the table. He brushes the tray with his fingers, running them over the smooth silver and the grain of the wood underneath. Finished with their tasks, the golems depart, leaving Khadgar alone with the sleeping man.

With a sigh, Khadgar settles into the armchair. It would be terrible if the man woke up alone, in a place he didn’t know. Khadgar folds his sleeves over his lap and decides to stay. He could do with a good rest anyway. It has only been a few minutes since he used his magic, but he already feels tired. The fire crackles cozily behind him as he keeps an eye on the bed, watching the sheets rise and fall with every breath.


	2. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lothar feels like he’s still dreaming when he wakes.

Lothar feels like he’s still dreaming when he wakes. The first thing he notices is the warmth. It’s soft, and all-encompassing. There’s no bite at the edge from winter battering at the boundaries of the fire. Maybe the softness is from the bed beneath him, reminding him of the one he has at home. Blankets cover his body in a gentle embrace. For the first time in years, Lothar feels relaxed, if not at peace.

He sits up, supporting himself with one hand on the mattress. The stiffness in his joints is gone. He feels at least five years younger. He raises his hands, flexing his fingers – only to find the pinky finger of his right hand cut off at the second knuckle. Beside it is his ring finger, cut off at the first knuckle.

His first thought is: _I wonder what Callan would say about this?_

His second is: _So, it’s not a dream._

Lothar feels his heart start to beat faster. He clenches his fist to hide the sight and ignores the tingling sensation at the end of the stubs. He focuses his attention to the room instead.

He’s in a two-poster bed large enough to easily fit three armored men. White sheets flow down the sides onto an immaculate marble floor. He feels dwarfed under the high ceiling and the size of the room. Across from him, a fire crackles in the hearth. In front of that is a small dining table with two chairs, and an armchair turned towards the fire. The curtains of the bed are red; and so is the carpet and the upholstery of the seats. Everything else is in white edged with gold. To his right, sunlight streams in from a floor-to-ceiling window. Through it he sees bountiful gardens, fruits and flowers blooming left and right.

The luxury of it all takes Lothar’s breath away. Where is he? Has he made it for Karazhan? If he has, that means everything he set his eyes on belongs to the Guardian.

His hands tighten their grip on the sheets.

For ten years now, Azeroth has been suffering under the merciless fangs of winter. Meanwhile, the Guardian has been living like _this?_ Rage warms him faster than any fire can. He throws the sheets off him and pushes himself to the edge of the bed. The floor is cold under his feet.

At least he still has all his toes.

_(How is he going to hold a sword?)_

He’s looking for his boots when he hears it – a small, snuffling sound. He freezes, giving the room a searching glance. He thought he was alone, but…

There it is again. Lothar straightens, his hand twitching for his sword. It isn’t at his hip, or anywhere near the bed. He looks around – there, against the armchair by the fire. Draped over its handle is a long, violet cloth.

The cloth shifts. Lothar hears the sound.

_Ah._

It’s a boy, Lothar discovers, as he steps around the armchair with care. A young boy, still trying to grow a fledgling beard, curled up in the chair and swimming in his own robes. Lothar watches as the boy breathes in, then out, nose twitching as he makes that snuffling noise again.

Lothar leans over and grasps the boy’s shoulder. “Oi,” he says, giving him a little shake. In hindsight, it wasn’t the wisest decision to make.

The boy’s eyes open. He takes one look at Lothar and opens his mouth in a panicked cry. _“Sha’la ro-_ mmph!”

Lothar’s quick reflexes save him. The hand on the boy’s shoulder now holds back the arm the kid had raised to fling magic with. Lothar’s other hand covers his mouth, silencing the spell he had been about to cast. They stare at each other, panting.

Lothar speaks. “I’m going to let go of your mouth. When I do, you’re going to tell me who you are, and where I am. Do you understand?”

The kid glares at him over his hand. His eyes seem to glow in the firelight, the color of whiskey threaded with gold. There is no fear in them.

Finally, he nods.

Lothar pulls his hand away, ready to clap it back on the moment the mage says something he doesn’t understand. The boy takes a couple of deep breaths, bites his lip, then speaks. His glare never falters. “My name is Khadgar,” he says, enunciating every syllable with care. Lothar could think he is patronizing him, but there is only irritation on his face, with a hint of concern. “You’re in Karazhan, the Home of Spring. I found you collapsed within the barrier, so I brought you here.”

“The barrier?” Lothar gets the urge to look behind him and check the window. He doesn’t.

“The barrier around Karazhan. It protects it from- from what’s outside. I’m not surprised you didn’t notice; you were half-dead when I found you.”

Lothar doesn’t know what to say to that. The boy – Khadgar – raises his eyebrows. “ _Now_ will you let me go?”

Lothar can’t find a reason to say no, so he releases Khadgar’s wrist. His fingers tingle when they lose contact with skin sooner than expected – and again, Lothar is reminded of his new injury. He retracts his hand. Khadgar’s hand flashes out, fast enough that Lothar has no time to react before _his_ wrist is now in the mage’s hand.

“Let go of me,” he growls. Khadgar’s grip is firm, and doesn’t give.

“Let me examine it,” Khadgar says, sharp and commanding. It’s surprising, for someone who looks so soft. His touch, however, is gentle, as he traces the scars that look weeks old. The sensation is strange and uncomfortable. Lothar isn’t ready to absorb this new development yet. He clenches his hand into a fist. It just makes it worse. He yearns for a drink.

“I’m sorry.” Khadgar’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts. The boy’s brow is furrowed, his lips thin with… sorrow? “I did my best, but I couldn’t save them.” He looks up at Lothar, and- yes, there is sorrow in his eyes. And regret. And compassion.

Something tugs at Lothar’s gut. He jerks his hand back. This time, Khadgar lets him. Lothar paces towards the fire, both for the novelty of the warmth and to get some space. He searches for something, anything to say. “Fat lot of good your best did.”

Khadgar’s expression clouds over. Lothar sees his jaw clench, eyes darkening, rising to take the bait. He wants him to, but regrets his words at the same time. Anger and confusion make him want to lash out; Khadgar is both the closest and easiest target.

Instead, Khadgar bites his lip and forces his temper down. “What’s your name?” he asks.

Lothar’s opinion of him rises with reluctance. Gods forbid a boy in a glorified dress outdo him in maturity. He wrestles with his irritation for a moment, then speaks. “Anduin Lothar. Commander of Stormwind’s army.” And with a touch of bitterness, adds, “When it still existed.”

“Anduin,” Khadgar repeats. It is not something Lothar enjoys hearing. Only Taria calls him that now. Any others who earned the right died or disappeared years ago.

“That’s Lothar to you.”

Khadgar’s eyebrows fly up. “My apologies, _Commander._ ” Lothar resists the urge to shake him. “Would it please you to inform me of your purpose here in Karazhan?”

That sobers Lothar. He turns to face the boy, all irritation falling away to be replaced with the urgency that brought him here in the first place. “I need to see the Guardian.”

* * *

 

_“I need to see the Guardian.”_

That startles Khadgar more than it should have. “The Guardian?” he repeats, then curses himself for being surprised. This is Karazhan, the Home of Spring. Of course Lothar is looking for the Guardian. Then dread starts to creep in, snaking icy cold tendrils into the ball of fire nestled in his chest. “What do you need of the Guardian?”

Lothar bursts into laughter. It is not a nice laugh. “Oh, I don’t know. Let’s start with the ten years of winter plaguing Azeroth,” he says, his voice lowering into a dangerous growl.

Khadgar feels the blood drain from his face. “Ten years?” he hears himself say. It seems he will be repeating everything Lothar says today. The thought nearly makes him laugh. Khadgar, the great mage, reduced to an echo. The sound dies before it reaches his throat.

“That’s right, spell-chucker. Ten years.” Lothar stalks over, like a shadow headed for its prey. Lightning sparks in his eyes, fueled by years of anger and bitterness. “Ten years of no sun, no harvest. Years of snow and starvation.” He ticks it off on his fingers, but clenches his fist shut before he reaches three. “And, of course, on top of all that, there’s Gul’dan.”

Khadgar flinches. Pain registers from his hands as his nails dig into the armrest. The dread overtakes him, freezing his heart and choking him at the throat.

Gul’dan.

_Gul’dan._

Lothar leans down, until his face is even with Khadgar’s. “Gul’dan, the Sorcerer, the Soul Eater, self-proclaimed ruler of Azeroth, who is consuming its people one by one until there will be no one left.” His voice is mocking in its lightness. “Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

“You’re lying.” It’s automatic; when the human mind cannot comprehend something, it tries to deny it. There’s a roaring in Khadgar’s ears, drowning out everything but the sight of those blue, blue eyes, the color of a glacier, cracking open everything his mind had built to protect itself. Little lies, small denials. He doesn’t want it to be true, but already he can see it – Karazhan’s never-changing sky, his lack of need to eat or sleep– how it could all come together and erase time, until one day could be an eternity.

“Me? _Lying?_ ” Lothar stands, sweeping his hand at the warm fire, the gold ornaments, the birds chirping outside. “Look at you, living in your palace with paradise just outside the walls, and you’re calling _me_ a liar?” He slams a hand on the table, spilling cold tea and making the utensils clatter. “People are dying as we speak! I will _not_ let my people suffer any longer!”

“Then you’ve _failed._ ” Khadgar doesn’t realize he’s standing until he’s already there. His nails bite into his palm, his shoulders heaving with every breath. Tears are streaming down his cheeks, and he can’t do anything to stop them. “Don’t you see? If winter has taken over the land and Gul’dan reigns supreme, it only means one thing.

“The Guardian is _dead._ ”


	3. Remembering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Khadgar runs.

Khadgar runs. It is not the happy flight from mere hours before. His sleeves are not wings but weights. His robes have never felt heavier. Magic burns inside him but it cannot burn out the ice wrapped around his heart. The words _ten years_ and _Gul’dan_ chase him like ghosts through the lifeless halls.

He knows that time has passed. A few months. Maybe even a year. But _ten?_ Ten years, all by himself, in a mansion in the middle of nowhere, waiting for a dead body to come back home.

And just like that, Khadgar is back. Still the same in appearance, but so young, so naïve, so sure of himself and the magic he wields. Walking down the Hall of Seasons, Spring a warm, excited breeze in his heart. His master beside him, nodding encouragingly from behind their dark green hood.

There is no warning. His master head snaps around, alerted by something he cannot see. He turns, feeling something strange creeping up the back of his neck.

A voice. _“Khadgar. Go.”_ His master’s arm, shoving him back. His refusal. Young. Innocent. Cocksure. Footsteps, coming closer, even as he argues against leaving his master behind.

A monster. No leaf or vegetable shares the same sickly green that is the color of its skin, stretched over bulging muscles too large to be natural. Tusks, poking from its jaw. Bones, like a giant reversed pair of ribs, snaking up and out of its robes. Green flames, burning from the pits of its eyes, zeroing in on Khadgar and the light shimmering from under his skin.

He tastes fear, then. Just a touch. But he’s a young man with power in his hands, so he raises them up and lets the power billow forth, raising a golden shield and stopping the creature in its tracks. He grins.

His mistake.

He will never forget the touch of Fel against his magic. Cold, more bitter than any winter. Dread, like the trickle down your spine from eyes you cannot see. Fear, as his power is sucked away, leaving them open. Vulnerable.

His master screams. Green light, lancing towards them. He panics. Reaches for power. His master, calling his name.

_“Khadgar!”_

He’s in his study. Not at the Temple, but in Karazhan. The attack is little more than a memory. He steps through the mass of papers scattered across the room. Ten years’ worth of notes on every book in Karazhan, on the nature of magical polarities, the history of Spring and its elusive enemy: Fel.

He touches one of the drawings. A demon rises from the left, arm reached out to grab, while a dragon roars at it from the right. He tugs it loose, staring at the delicate lines and the meticulous detail on the creatures. Letters in the between the two note references to the mythology surrounding Spring and Fel and the duality of the two opposing energies. The wetness rolling down his cheeks blurs the words.

He hasn’t thought of that day in years. Has avoided all reminders of it, locking it away in the back of his mind and thrown away the key. And all it took was one blue-eyed man to break into his solitude and rip apart what he’d tried to shield himself with.

He goes through it again. The Temple, the Hall. Spring in his hands and in his heart. A monster in the flesh, the green light of Fel. His mind skitters away from the memory.

He had tugged on the magic of the world and the lines that crisscrossed it, sending him back to home. Karazhan. Woken up under the shield that shut the world out and waited ever since.

Again. The Hall, and Spring. His master beside him. Green light that he wouldn’t recognize until it touches his magic and imprints itself forever in his mind. A coward’s flight.

A name keeps repeating itself.

_Gul’dan._

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispers to the paper. His voice cracks.

“I don’t know what to do,” his voice says from behind him. He whirls around, and almost breaks down at what he sees.

“Blob,” he gasps, dropping the paper and reaching out to the small lump of living energy at the door.

“Blob,” the blob echoes, rolling forward like a misshapen lump of jelly.

One day Khadgar had gotten so sick of the oppressive silence of Karazhan he had tried to create a companion. Not only did he want someone to talk to, he wanted someone to talk _back._ But magic constructs aren’t meant to speak. The results of his efforts became Blob, remarkably intelligent but only able to parrot Khadgar’s words back at him.

Khadgar falls to his knees, taking the creature no bigger than a child’s toy and holding it tight. It’s warm and soft, like cradling a warm compress in his arms. Orange stubs extend from its body of pure magic and pat Khadgar gently. “Blob.”

“It’s all my fault, Blob,” Khadgar says, the tears falling faster. “It’s all my fault.”

**_“You can’t hide from me!”_ **

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to drown out the memory of the voice.

Loud ringing, like a hammer on a gong, as Khadgar cowers in a corner of Karazhan and prays for the shield to hold. A cry of fury, like snake scales against rock, slithering into the space between his bones. He can sense him, Gul’dan, murderer, monster, prowling the edges of the barrier like a typhoon ready to blow.

The memories come, like stones dropping into a still pool and creating ripple after ripple until the waves turn into a violent sea.

It’s all falling apart. Every wall, every denial, every little white lie he had told himself to keep himself sane –

_‘It can’t have been that long.’_

_‘Master will come back for me’_

_‘I just need to wait.’_

_–_ all crumbling between his fingers.

Khadgar is falling apart.

After all, he’d known all along, hadn’t he? How Gul’dan had tried to take Spring from him. How his master had stepped forward to protect him.

_“Khadgar!”_

And he had fled, before Gul’dan could take another step towards him. Left his master behind when it mattered the most, when mere minutes before he had argued against leaving.

**“ _I_ will _have Spring! Even if I have to wait a hundred years!”_**

He had locked away the truth in the back of his mind, because to know the truth is to know despair.

The Guardian is dead. Has _been_ dead, for the past ten years.

Khadgar is alone.

He can’t breathe. His breath is coming too fast, shoulders heaving as he chokes on sobs with every inhale. Blob’s patting becomes frantic, his own voice repeated back at him. “It’s all my fault, Blob! It’s all my fault!” it says, his voice panicked from its lips. He wants to laugh. He can only cry.

How many have died while he stayed here, hidden away? He was a fool to think that keeping Spring from Gul’dan would keep Azeroth safe. A coward and a fool.

“It’s all my fault,” he agrees. Tears streaming down his face, he curls in on himself, as if he could wrap himself around Blob and never let go. “What do I do, Blob? What do I do?”

_Oh Master Alodi… what am I supposed to do?_

* * *

 

“Wait!” Lothar yells, but the boy is gone, the door slamming shut behind him. Lothar is left standing there, shoulders heaving, his marred hand resting on the table.

_The Guardian is dead._

It echoes in his mind like a persistent insect, tinny and warped by the weight of the implications behind it. It feels like the air has died. The words lie between them like shattered glass, neither of them wanting —or able—to pick up the pieces. He remembers Khadgar’s wide eyes, more brown than honey and shimmering behind the tears streaming down his cheeks.

_“I… I have to go. The golems will give you anything you need.”_

The Guardian is dead.

Lothar really, _really_ needs that drink. Multiple ones. All in a row. Now. He needs to run from the panicked voices in his head that ask, _what about Callan, what about Gul’dan,_ and _what about the kingdom?_ With a sudden yell, he lifts the exquisitely crafted wooden table and tosses it to the side.

Metal and ceramic fall to the floor in an unholy rain of clinks and clangs. The table bounces off the floor, then rolls, the carved vines and leaves on its legs mocking him. It’s nowhere near the size and weight of the grand table in Stormwind castle, but Lothar has broken the latter with less. Even the teacups are whole and safe, though the tea has spilled all over the ground.

Lothar grabs the table by the leg, ready to throw it out the window. The wood shimmers under his hand.

Of course the furniture in Kharazan is enchanted. The universe won’t even let him break a damn thing to let out some steam.

Growling, he tosses the table to the side. The wood thuds against the marble floor. He had risked his life, his sister’s life, and the lives of his people to escape Stormwind and run to Karazhan, only to find that the one person they needed isn’t there. It feels like the world is laughing at him, laughing at his desperation and helplessness.

He thinks of Callan, sweet little Callan. Cally’s boy all over, from his gentle hazel eyes to the way he laughs, head thrown back to gift his laughter to the sky. Barely fourteen years old, too young to be sacrificed to Gul’dan’s endless hunger for power.

Lothar won’t stand by and let him die. He _won’t._

_A dead body, tossed into the middle of the courtyard, the crushing guilt at the sight of the familiar knife buried in its neck-_

Never again.

He can’t stay here. If the Guardian can’t help him, then he has to help himself. He grabs his sword and straps it to his belt. His winter clothes are nowhere in sight, and his provisions are long gone. The empty feeling in his gut reminds him that he has yet to eat.

He walks towards the door, yanking it open. He’s surprised to find it unlocked. He sticks his head out the door. “Hey!” The stark, white hallway is empty, save for an eerie, golden statue across him. Its eyes are blank, with a nose and ears. It has no mouth. It looks like a naked man, except smoothed into a cold, inhuman figure. Lothar grimaces at the creepy taste in décor.

“Boy!” he calls. “Khadgar!”

No response. The mage is gone.

Lothar eases out of the room. The door closes with a click. Somewhere in the distance, a bird sings. Otherwise, the halls are silent. It makes the hair on the back of his neck rise.

He glances once more in both directions, then heads towards his right. His footsteps echo through the halls. The air is cool away from the warmth of the fire. He finds himself turning his head, looking for signs of life. A voice, a breath, anything. Everything is impeccably clean but everything feels dead.

Where are the servants? Stormwind is at least equal in size to this place, if not larger, and Lothar still couldn’t go three corners without bumping into someone there. It’s almost enough to make Lothar think he imagined Khadgar.

Then he clenches his fist and reminds himself it’s no dream.

Something flits past in the corner of his eye. He whirls, but the corridor is as empty as when he walked through it. Again, like the shadow of sunlight through glass, he sees something just at the edge of his vision. This time he catches sight of it – the end of a cloak disappears around a corner. “Wait!”

He runs after it, because Lothar is an idiot who doesn’t think before following strange phenomena in a magic castle. The cloaked shadow darts out of reach, disappearing when Lothar catches up, only to reappear at the end of the hallway.

“Khadgar?” Lothar tries, but the figure doesn’t stop. Incensed, he runs faster. It’s useless – he’s already getting tired. It looks like whatever miracle cure the mage used, it hasn’t gotten him back to top form.

He has no idea where he is. He knows the person is leading him on, but in this empty palace it’s either stop and get lost or see where the figure taking him.

This time, when he turns the corner, the figure is gone. “Where are you?” Lothar yells. “Show yourself!”

The walls simply throw his voice back at him. A raven on the nearby windowsill pauses its grooming to give Lothar an affronted look. Lothar shoots a glare at it before dismissing the bird. He focuses on the hallway instead, trying to figure out why someone would want to lead him here without not revealing themselves. Even just figuring out where the figure had gone would be nice.

Every hallway looks the same. The walls are plain and white, golden pillars rising from the floor all the way up to the ceiling. The windows are at least 3 times as tall as Lothar, offering a grand view of Karazhan’s gardens to anyone passing by. His boots squeak against the polished marble floor.

At the end of the hallway is a door. Unlike the door to his room, this one is covered in bronze, spiraling runes carved into the metal forbidding entry better than any sign. Wary, Lothar looks around again. There is no other way the cloaked figure could have gone. Slowly, Lothar steps forward.

The door is gone, and so are Karazhan’s halls. He’s in a forest, no, a swamp, surrounded by thin trees rising out of the watery ground. The sky is dark, instead of the steady gold light of Karazhan. He whirls around – where is he? How did he get here? – only to hear splashing and angry voices rapidly approaching.

His sword flies out of its sheath. Again he turns, just in time to see-

“Garona?”

The name escapes his mouth before he even thinks it. There is no mistaking the light green skin and miniature tusks jutting out between her lips. Her hair is a tangled mess, worse than he remembers it, her clothing mere rags around her torso. She pays no attention to him, her gaze over her shoulder at her pursuers. He has never seen her look this terrified.

Rage floods through him. He roars, his fury beyond words, and raised his sword to slice through her throat.

Pain lances up his right hand. He steadies his grip with his left, growling, but it’s enough hesitation that Garona manages to run right in front of him – and through.

His heart catches in his throat. He turns, watching her flee, still looking over her shoulder but never acknowledging him. It’s as if he isn’t even there.

The angry voices grow louder. He follows Garona’s gaze. A group of men charge from the trees, shouting guttural phrases. Their hair is dark, tied into thick ropes, with bones and feathers woven in-between. They wield axes, spears, and torches, the blades glittering in the firelight. Leading them is a large man, dark tattoos around his eyes and spiraling from his ink-black hands to his shoulders.

Lothar has seen that man before. Except Blackhand’s skin isn’t a twisted, evil green, but an ordinary light brown.

“What is this?” Lothar whispers, watching the hunting party draw close. He steps back, ready to flee.

The door is back, still and bronze and as innocent as an enchanted door could be. Lothar takes a couple more steps back, almost tripping over himself. He looks around – white, gold, gardens under a false sunlight. Karazhan.

He can’t stop the cold shiver that runs down his spine. What did he just see? That had been Garona, for sure. But now that he thinks about it, that Garona hadn’t looked like the one he knows. That one was thinner, paler, more like the Garona from their first meeting than the unstoppable assassin of the Horde. Blackhand too, hadn’t been the green, gigantic orc he knows now.

Could that have been… the past? If so, why did he see it? How?

“Damn magic,” he curses, sheathing his sword. He shakes out his hand, which still aches from the effort of holding up solid steel with just three fingers.

Lothar looks back at the door, even warier than before. Could whatever be behind it cause that… vision?

“What do I do?”

He knows that voice. “Mage?”

No answer. Then, “What do I do?”

The voice is wrecked, warped with a clogged throat and a runny nose. Despair and self-derision fills each word – emotions Lothar knows all too well. Something softens inside him; he pushes the feeling back.

He steps away from the door. “Khadgar?”

The source of the voice rolls to a stop at the end of the corridor. If pressed, the best way Lothar could describe it would be a blob. It looks like someone had dumped a bowl of glowing orange pudding on the floor and brought it to life.

For a moment, they stand there, staring at each other, pinpricks of white directed at blue.

The creature moves first, barreling down the hall with surprising speed. “What do I do? What do I do!” it cries in that mockery of Khadgar’s voice.

“Stay back!” Metal rings as Lothar draws his sword, pointing it at the beast – and curses as phantom pain throbs through his hand. The creature jolts back, avoiding the sword’s sagging tip. A sharp lance of fear pierces through Lothar like lightning. Then comes fury. He switches hands and brings the sword to bear, right hand around his left. He is _not_ helpless. He is not!

The sword swings down; the blob leaps backwards to avoid it. “What do I do, what do I do?” it cries, a portion of it twisting side to side as it waves stubby limbs at Lothar and- is that- begging?

Lothar hesitates, sword held to the side and ready to swing again. But the blob doesn’t take the opportunity to attack. It quivers in place, the weird protrusions that Lothar assumes are hands held out. The pinpricks of light from before are now narrowed slits, as if squeezing its eyes shut.

“What… are you?” Lothar says, feeling stupid as he addresses something not even tall enough to reach his knee. The creature seems to blink, then jerk up, its eyes turned towards Lothar again. Lothar goes out on a limb and adds, “Did Khadgar send you?”

The thing nods what passes for its head frantically, eyes slits again. Before Lothar can say anything, it pauses, as if considering something, then shakes its head. Lothar resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“You can understand me?”

More frantic nods and hand waving.

“You know Khadgar?”

That question excites it, bringing forth more ‘ _What do I do?_ ’s with a trace of urgency. Intrigued, Lothar crouches down, the better to study the strange creature of molten light. “Did he say that?”

The creature pauses, then nods. Its figure slouches, eyes slanted downwards, the picture of misery. Lothar, surprisingly, doesn’t hesitate. “Take me to him.”

They find the mage in a study of some sort. It’s smaller than the room Lothar woke up in, but is impressive all the same. There’s enough paper inside to recreate a forest. There are papers on the floor, on the desk and on the walls. Some even hang from strings like laundry, criss-crossing above him and across the room.

In the middle of it all is Khadgar, sprawled on the ground like an abandoned puppet. His breathing is harsh and erratic, his fingers twitching in his sleep. Lothar watches in shock as light ripples across his violet robes with every breath, revealing strange, spiraling patterns in gold.

There are tear tracks on his cheeks.

That same soft feeling nudges at Lothar from inside. He ignores it, stepping over sheets of paper to reach Khadgar’s side. Something makes him press his hand against the boy’s forehead. He frowns. He’s warm, warmer than he should be. The touch makes Khadgar’s head tilt to the side, exposing the line of his jaw and the high collar around his neck.

Lothar sits back on his haunches, considering his options. There’s only one, really. With a sigh, he slips his arms underneath the mage’s limp form, pulling him up by his back and knees. Khadgar is heavier than he looks. It must be the robes; his sleeves are long enough that only an inch keeps them from the floor. His head rests against Lothar’s shoulder. Every breath sends a puff of air against Lothar’s neck. It tickles, a little. “Where should I take him?” he asks the little blob at his feet.

It leads him to a different set of rooms. They are no less extravagant than Lothar’s, but they look like someone actually lives in them. There are bookshelves and another desk, more books and papers scattered over them and across the floor. Compared to the cleanliness of the rest of the mansion, it’s a bit of a shock.

Lothar places Khadgar in the expansive bed in the middle of the room. Lothar has to tug up his robes to get his boots off. Khadgar stirs at one point, a whimper rising to his lips, but doesn’t wake. It feels disturbingly like trying to undress a woman, especially when Lothar shifts Khadgar on his side and finds that what he had thought was a sash is actually a corset.

He shakes that feeling off and reaches for the laces. If there’s one thing he knows from growing up with a sister, it’s that corsets, or anything of the sort, are nowhere near comfortable to sleep in.

“What do I do!” The blob raises a tinny protest, rolling up the side of the bed ( _how did it climb?)_ and waving its stubby hands to and fro. Lothar gives it a _look._

“I’m not going to do anything,” he says, exasperated. Still the blob waves, bobbing in agitation. Lothar ignores it and reaches for the laces again – except the material shimmers, along with Khadgar’s robes as he takes another breath.

Of course. More magic. Lothar releases the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding and pulls back. Khadgar shifts on his own, curling up into a loose ball. Lothar gives the blob another look and says, “You could have warned me,” even though he knows it did. The little shit shrugs.

Lothar glances at the mage one more time. His lashes look long enough to brush his cheek. They flutter as his eyes flicker behind his eyelids, tracking things Lothar couldn’t see. Again, Lothar is reminded of how young Khadgar seems to be, even if his expression is nowhere as peaceful as before.

He remembers the look of shock and horror on the boy’s face when he had confronted him about Gul’dan. _You’re lying,_ Khadgar had fired back immediately, almost like a reflex. As if he couldn’t confront the truth being given to him.

How long exactly has Khadgar been in this mansion?

Lothar poses the question to the blob, which can only answer him with more helpless _‘What do I do?’s_. Lothar frowns. Khadgar looks old enough to have been a teenager when Gul’dan came into power. The fact that he can use magic obviously puts him as the Guardian’s apprentice, or something of the sort. If he really is the Guardian’s apprentice, it’s possible he’s lived here all his life. It’s a small wonder he was so distressed; Lothar may have just brought him the first news of the death of his teacher.

_The Guardian is dead._

Lothar pulls back, resting his weight on one hand as he observes the sleeping form in front of him. His knee-jerk reaction had been to rage, to storm back home and leave this empty place of luxury and grandeur. This waste of time. Hopelessness dripped through his veins. He had bent his pride to find a myth that would help him save his son, only to find the myth dead.

His mind is clearer now.

The Guardian may be dead, but his things would still be here. This is Karazhan, home to the source of all magic and life on Azeroth. There _has_ to be something that can help them defeat Gul’dan here, with or without the Guardian. If so, only Khadgar would know.

It’s decided. Lothar will have to stay. At the very least, he can wring whatever information Khadgar has before he goes. For that, he’ll have to wait until the boy wakes.

His hand curls into a fist. If Lothar is going to defeat Gul’dan, he’ll need every advantage he can get.

 _Just a little longer, Callan_. _Your father is coming._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We got a lot from Lothar here. Also, the plot thickens. Whee! (If everything is a little bit confusing, that's kind of the point, but you're also welcome to ask. I'll answer what I can <3)
> 
> Keep an eye out for the ltfau playlist [here](http://fleeting-white-feathers.tumblr.com/tagged/ltfau+playlist). First song should be up in a few minutes if the internet doesn't die on me. And there are author's notes attached, yay! I'll probably do it properly on spotify or youtube or whatever someday, but I want to give meaning to what would otherwise be a random amalgamation of songs, so we'll do this way first.


	4. Hesitating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m joking, those are in the Southwest. The Southeast apples won’t try to kill you. Much.”

Khadgar wakes to the sight of the ceiling of his room. Mapped above him are the constellations of Azeroth, from the straight lines of The Tome to the crisscrossing ones of Turalyon’s Hammer. He remembers practicing his rune magic by scrawling levitation runes on the floor, then lying on his back in midair and drawing the stars to soothe his buzzing mind.

A familiar voice pulls him out of his memories. “What do I do? What do I do!”

He rolls over, groaning at the usual ache in his back from sleeping in his corset. “Blob?” he croaks. It should worry him how unused he is to waking up. The crusty feeling in his eyes and the heaviness in his head make him want to sink into the cushions and disappear.

“Blob!” the magic construct cheers, wriggling into Khadgar’s arms. Khadgar pulls it close, basking in the warmth it provides.

“How did I get here?” he says, looking around. The fire is lit, something Blob wouldn’t have been able to do. And he had instructed the golems to leave his room alone ages ago.

Ages.

Ten years.

His master is dead.

Khadgar rolls onto his back and puts his arm over his eyes. The crushing weight of despair and responsibility crashes through him yet again. Blob croons sadly as the tears start rolling down his cheeks.

He knows why he forgot. Why he fooled himself into hiding his head in the sand and burying himself in his study of the Fel. It was either that or go mad, besieged by an evil sorcerer and living with no hope of rescue or escape. Maybe he _is_ mad. Do the insane know they are insane?

Does it matter?

What’s he to do now? Only the Guardian can defeat the might of Gul’dan, and Khadgar is no Guardian. Just an apprentice. Just a vessel. He has spent the past ten years scouring Karazhan from top to bottom, but found no solution to the power of Gul’dan’s Fel. Even if he leaves now, all those people would have died for nothing, once Gul’dan gets his hands on the power of Spring. Either way, he is damned.

Khadgar is alone.

Blob slides up from Khadgar’s chest and into the crook of his neck. It hums, the only sound it can make that isn’t replicated from Khadgar’s tongue. The soft vibration against his skin feels like an embrace, even as the sobs wrack his body.

Something tickles the back of his mind.

Khadgar knows everything that happens in Karazhan. It’s always there, at the back of his head, like a sense beyond touch and sight. Right now, there’s a bee landing on a gardenia near the south wall. The chickens are fluttering away in their pen, and one of the cows is in distress because it needs to be milked. The marigolds near the Sirens’ Fountain are swaying more than usual, thanks to the breeze created by the man practicing with his sword there.

Anduin Lothar.

With a curse, Khadgar scrambles to his feet – and yelps as his bare skin touches the cold, marble floor. More expletives follow, as he hops to his boots and shoves his feet inside. Blob scurries after him, repeating his every word with an added tinge of worry.

Khadgar wipes his eyes on his sleeve as he goes.

“That idiot,” he says to Blob, striding out of his room. “Just because I healed him doesn’t mean he can already start swinging his sword around like a barbarian!”

“A barbarian?” Blob repeats, confused. It slips over the floor, keeping pace with ease.

“Yes, a barbarian!” Khadgar throws up his hands. “He’s not fully healed yet! He’s better than he _was,_ of course, but the body needs to recuperate on its own after a magical healing!” He pushes open the glass doors to the terrace, stepping into the garden. “Maybe a couple more days of rest, then-”

He stops.

Then what? The Guardian is dead. What reason has Lothar to stay? He has a kingdom to save, and Khadgar is of no use to him. In a few days he’ll be gone.

Something about that thought tugs at his attention. He skitters from it like a wounded animal. The Guardian is dead. Khadgar is of no use to Lothar. That’s the _truth._

His breath is coming faster again.

“Then?” Blob draws him out of his thoughts, giving his leg a little pat. Khadgar looks down at the creature he had created, all misshapen orange and a soft, golden glow. He bends down and picks it up, cradling it in his arms. Khadgar had been bedridden for days after the ritual, but Blob had been – and still is – worth it.

It doesn’t matter if Lothar leaves. Khadgar has all the company he needs. He’s survived ten years, hasn’t he? He can survive more.

He ignores the way his chest tightens at the thought.

Khadgar carries Blob in one arm while his other hand holds up the hem of his robes, heading straight down the path leading to the fountain. The flowers sway as they pass. Chirp and Feather flit out of their nest to greet him, twittering around his head. He gives them a smile in return, while Blob waves good bye as they fly back. It isn’t long before they start hearing the sound of metal cutting through the air, along with Lothar’s harsh breathing.

Lothar is not in top shape. Even before he arrived in Karazhan, Khadgar could tell he’s seen better times. Sheer stubbornness is probably what kept his muscle mass what it is now. The sword is heavy; it takes Khadgar both hands to hold it up. And yet Lothar swings it with ease, spinning it in his hand as he steps forward to meet an invisible enemy.

He moves like a predator, every move filled with surety and grace. The sword comes up in a slash, then spins around for a follow-through in the opposite direction. Lothar ducks, and turns that into a killing strike, thrusting upwards into his enemy’s heart. He leaps back, swinging at the enemy that takes its place. The maneuvers become smoother, more deadly, until Lothar is a whirlwind of movement, and then-

He curses. The sword falls to the ground with a clang. Lothar clutches his right hand in his left, hissing under his breath.

Khadgar remembers how to breathe.

“What are you _doing?_ ” he asks, voice higher than it should be. “You should be resting! Just because you can stand doesn’t mean you can go around swinging a sword already!”

Lothar’s head snaps up. “Oh, you’re awake,” he says, as if standing there, bare-chested, shoulders heaving and skin glistening in the light, is nothing to him.

Khadgar tears his eyes away from a bead of sweat slipping past Lothar’s collarbone and focuses all his attention into the man’s bright blue eyes. “Yes, I am,” he snaps, before his brain catches up with Lothar’s words. He blinks, momentarily halted, as he pieces it together. “…You’re the one who brought me to my room.”

“Yes.” Lothar raises an eyebrow in his direction, before turning around pick up his discarded shirt. His back isn’t any better than his front. “Your… creature found me, and brought me to you.”

This time Khadgar tears his eyes away to look at Blob. “It did?” He can’t keep the note of amazement out of his voice. He knows he had created Blob to be intelligent. But he didn’t expect it to be intelligent enough to search out its first human aside from Khadgar, when Khadgar needed help and it couldn’t summon the golems.

“It did,” Blob agrees, patting Khadgar on the chest. Lothar gives it a glance, his expression curious and thoughtful.

“Does it only repeat everything you say?” he asks, blessedly putting his shirt back on.

“I thought it could only repeat words it hears, but if it’s not repeating what you say-” Khadgar looks at Blob for confirmation. It shakes its head, glowy eyes morose. “-then I suppose so.” It’s not like Khadgar’s ever had the chance to experiment before. It makes sense, though. Khadgar had tied Blob to his magic in order to create a being anywhere close to sentience, let alone the intelligence he had in mind. It’s a fascinating tidbit to learn.

He catches Lothar rubbing his right palm and remembers why he came here in the first place. He raises his eyes to the sky for a moment, cursing idiots missing fingers and ignoring the fact, then strides forward. “Give it here.” Blob drops to the ground as he takes the hand in question.

“What are you-” He ignores Lothar’s growl, pressing a _little_ harder than required to examine the tense muscle.

He probably shouldn’t be taking satisfaction from Lothar’s pained grunt either.

Again, he sinks into the power stored inside him. It takes even less magic than before to heal a tiny cramp and soothe the agitated flesh. Even then, he’s sweating by the time Lothar’s clawed fingers ease.

He steps back, avoiding Lothar’s piercing gaze by stooping down to pick up Blob once more. “You couldn’t have waited till _after_ breakfast before attempting to further mutilate yourself?” he snaps, the reminder of his burden making him crabby.

“I wasn’t aware this place served breakfast,” Lothar retorts, flipping his wrist forward and back. Khadgar eyes the way he’s holding his hand, but decides it’s more of a testing motion than one still of pain. “considering the only other human being around was _asleep._ ”

“So you were attempting to spar with thin air _on an empty stomach._ ” Perhaps Khadgar had been wrong. He had failed to heal Lothar. Maybe Khadgar brought his body back from the brink of death but failed to bring his mind along with it.

“I’m not _stupid._ ” Lothar raises an eyebrow at him, giving him a judgmental look. “I ate some apples from the nearby trees.”

Khadgar’s eyes go wide in exaggerated horror. “You didn’t get the Frog Apples from the Southeast Orchard, did you? You _are_ looking a little green around the edges. How long has it been since you ate them?”

Lothar looks so alarmed that Khadgar doesn’t even need the full spiel he has building in his head. He snorts and waves his hand in the air, as if dispelling a cloud. “I’m joking, those are in the South _west_. The Southeast apples won’t try to kill you. Much.” Not any more than the average apple would, anyway. Though with Lothar’s attitude, the chances of that might be higher. Khadgar wouldn’t blame the apple for wanting to, at least.

“Very funny,” Lothar says, his voice dry. He steps forward, putting himself inside Khadgar’s personal space. Khadgar resists the urge to step back, tilting his chin to look Lothar in the eye. “Do you always joke about your lethal vegetation with your guests, spell-chucker?”

From where he’s standing, Khadgar can see the lines of icy blue in the deeper shade of Lothar’s eyes. He looks away first, heart thudding in his ears, and clutches Blob to his chest. “I don’t usually get guests,” he says, turning away. He can feel those sharp blue eyes digging into his back.

He starts down the path. When he doesn’t hear footsteps behind him, he looks over his shoulder, raising his eyebrows. His heart has calmed, at least. “Are you just going to stand there or follow?”

Lothar’s frown turns from irritated to wary. His sword is in his hand again, Khadgar notes, and he has yet to sheathe it. The caution in his eyes and the way he holds his sword pricks Khadgar somewhere deep. “Where are you taking me?” he asks.

And just like that, Khadgar is reminded of the fact that he and Lothar have just met, and most of that time one of them had been asleep. It’s stupid to feel a connection with a man when all he’s done is talk to him once and watch him sleep. Just because he’s the first person Khadgar has spoken to in so long doesn’t mean that the feeling is mutual.

“To breakfast,” he says, his voice dropping into cool sarcasm. _Obviously,_ is left unsaid. “Or would you like to try the peach trees instead? Perhaps you’d prefer being turned into a bird.”

A chuckle bursts from Lothar’s lips. The sound makes Khadgar turn around fully, eyes wide, in time to see him returning his sword to its sheathe. He smirks at the mage. “If all your fruits are so dangerous, I would hate to see what your breakfast might do to me.”

That startles a laugh out of Khadgar. He can’t help but grin at Lothar. “At its worst? The most dreaded thing of all: a stomach ache.”

Lothar raises an eyebrow. “That better be its worst. I’d hate for you to waste all your efforts in bringing me back from the brink of death.”

Khadgar laughs again. The movement tugs at his face in a way that feels strange, yet familiar. Khadgar doesn’t remember the last time he laughed like this: freely and without pretense; without needing to fill the silence. Laughing, and sharing it with another person. He feels something in him ease, like a bit off snow falling from a tree and melting away in the rays of morning. He feels _light._

“I’ve invested too much in your well-being to let you die over bread and cheese,” he says, his smile careless and bright.

He looks up at Lothar, who gazes at him with amusement. Khadgar tries to imagine him, his frozen man, gone. The tower empty again, and Khadgar alone inside.

The desperation hits him hard from a well so deep it takes his breath away. His hands tighten around Blob, who looks up at him in alarm.

He doesn’t want to lose this. He _can’t._ Who is he kidding? The only reason he isn’t mad yet is because he had ignored the passage of time and pretended it didn’t exist.

If Lothar leaves, it will break him.

* * *

 

Lothar watches Khadgar’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he throws his head back and laughs. His grin lights up his entire face. His cheeks dimple when he smiles.

It feels so different here, standing in what could be sunlight and listening to laughter paint the air. He can’t begrudge Khadgar his smile – in fact, it tugs on his lips as well, no matter how much he tries to resist. He doesn’t forget the fact that Khadgar made him chuckle earlier either.

It’s easier here, in the midst of bright Spring.

Khadgar’s smile falters. Lothar raises an eyebrow, but Khadgar doesn’t react, his eyes flickering across Lothar’s face yet looking somewhere beyond him. Lothar doesn’t like it. He raises his hand and ruffles Khadgar’s hair, relishing in the yelp it elicits from those rosy lips. “You promised me breakfast,” he reminds the mage, when Khadgar looks up at him with the look like that of a startled rabbit.

“Oh. Right.” Something in the mixed wonder and shock in Khadgar’s eyes makes Lothar want to raise an eyebrow again. All he’d done was ruffle his hair, so why...? “This way,” Khadgar says, and turns to lead the way.

Blob – what kind of name is that? – pops its head over Khadgar’s shoulder as he walks. The little thing smiles at Lothar with its eyes and gives him an enthusiastic wave. Lothar rolls his eyes, but it refuses to stop waving until Lothar waves back. Habit makes him raise his right hand and twiddle his fingers in the creature’s direction, giving him a perfect view of his stubs waving in the air. He drops his hand.

Blob seems delighted enough. Lothar can hear it saying “This way! This way!” as it turns its attention to Khadgar. Khadgar murmurs something he can’t hear, then tenderly caresses the wobbly creature with a pale finger. It croons.

Khadgar leads them through a pair of glass doors and through several hallways, carpeted in red. Lothar expects them to sit down once they arrive at a huge dining room, with a table that could easily fit more than ten people. But Khadgar just keeps walking past the ornate chairs and leads him through a smaller side door into… the kitchen.

It’s a huge kitchen, with wide open spaces and another huge set of windows on one side lighting up the room. A smaller table is situated near the windows, providing those seated there with a grand view of a pond surrounded by flowers. Lothar spots a family of ducks enjoying the water.

Khadgar follows his gaze. “My-” He stops, then licks his lips. “The Guardian doesn’t- didn’t particularly like dining in the main dining room. So we set this up here. We usually ate here when we weren’t… thinking about other things.” The smallest of smiles flickers across his face, then disappears.

“I see,” is all Lothar says. There’s a shadow in Khadgar’s eyes that makes something in his chest twinge. Lothar looks away.

He almost jumps out of his skin.

The statue from across his room stands at the counter, slicing open a block of cheese. Its golden body ripples with every movement, like molten metal at the forge. The motions are smooth, and unnatural in its smoothness.

“What is that?” Lothar says, fighting to keep his voice steady. The statue ignores him. Khadgar raises an eyebrow.

“That’s a golem. I told you-” He frowns, then shakes his head. “No, I didn’t. I’m sorry. The golems are in charge of the upkeep of Karazhan and its residents. This place would be a lot dustier without them.” He quirks a smile in Lothar’s direction, trying to tease. Lothar’s smile back is half-hearted at the least.

A second golem shows up from a different entrance, carrying a basket of eggs. Lothar itches for his sword. They both look identical; Lothar has seen many statues of that same design in the little he’s seen of Karazhan. Is every golden statue here a golem?

“Don’t you have any human servants?” Lothar asks, skeptical.

Khadgar’s laughter rings out, short and abrupt. “No. We don’t.”

Lothar stares at him. Khadgar’s head is bent towards the creature in his arms, hiding whatever expression he’s making. “We don’t,” Blob says sadly, patting his face again.

_“I don’t usually get guests.”_

Lothar has pieces of a puzzle. He doesn’t like the direction they’re pointing.

He grabs Khadgar by the shoulder, before the mage can move away. “Khadgar – who else is here with you?”

Khadgar stares at his hand until Lothar’s gaze gravitates to it too. Gently, Khadgar lifts it from his shoulder, holding it with something akin to reverence. “No one.” His voice is small. “I am alone.” He lets go.

A golem passes by them, wielding plates and utensils. Lothar jerks back. The moment is gone.

Khadgar’s eyes dart in his direction. Noting his discomfort, the mage drops Blob and waves the golems away. “That’s fine, thank you. Just leave them there, I’ll take care of it.”

The golems turn their heads in Khadgar’s direction sharply, making Lothar tense. It’s as if they had actually heard that order through ears that have no holes. Who designed these things to be _servants?_ Their eyes are blank. They have a nose, but no lips. It makes them look even more ominous than if they had only had blank faces.

Lothar is glad when they leave, though he doesn’t let it show. Khadgar gives him a look, but doesn’t say anything.

He takes the seat offered him and watches Khadgar putter around the kitchen in the golems’ stead. Blob climbs up to the table and bumps his hand until he gives in and pets it, making it croon once more. Lothar doesn’t mind, really. His thoughts are elsewhere.

If the Guardian doesn’t keep human servants, then who – or what – was the shadow he had chased earlier? On that matter, the only other signs of life Lothar has found in this place are the animals in the gardens and Khadgar’s magical pet.

The last time anyone had seen any sign of the Guardian was the last Rite of the Equinox. If something had happened to the Guardian during that fateful day the Rite didn’t happen… Does that mean Khadgar has been here, all this time?

Lothar tries to imagine spending ten years all alone in this bright, but empty place. Suddenly, the spacious, gilded halls and lush gardens don’t feel as wonderful as before.

His eyes wander to the mage. There’s something… funny, about the way Khadgar fusses over the eggs and cheese. Standing, his robes no longer look quite so big on him, and start looking closer to suiting him. Still, it looks a bit silly and impractical for everyday wear. The boy practically flutters to the table, his long sleeves billowing with every movement.

“I hope this is enough,” Khadgar says at last, putting down the fruit and breaking him out of his thoughts. Blob darts out of the way, the space on the table shrinking to a little half-circle by the window. Khadgar gives it an apologetic look. Lothar swears it _pouts_ before dropping to the floor. “If I had been able to alert Cook earlier, we could have cooked one of the pigeons. Is it alright?” Khadgar looks up at Lothar, doe eyes wide and tentative.

Lothar looks at the wine in simple, but classy silver goblets; at the loaves of bread placed in a basket; the cheese slices on a platter and the fruit in a bowl. Compared to what he’s eaten the past few years, it’s practically a feast. “Believe me,” he says, careful to keep his voice even. “This is just fine.”

Khadgar’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t push it. He sits down. Lothar takes a loaf of bread and tears off a piece. He forgets where he is for the moment when he puts the piece in his mouth. His eyes close; he has to bite back the moan that wants to slip past his lips at the taste. It’s been years since he’s tasted fresh bread. It’s like biting into a cloud. He tears into the food with enthusiasm.

The cheese is sharp and chewy. The wine is sweet on his tongue. The eggs are just shy of the wrong side of rubbery.

Lothar can’t complain. It’s _food. Fresh_ food. Nothing like the dry crackers and days-old meat that make up the rations handed out by the Horde. Still, he sees Khadgar’s expectant look and raises an eyebrow in his direction. “Are you trying to fulfill that promise of a stomach ache with this?” he teases, poking the resistant egg to demonstrate.

Khadgar turns red from the neck up to his ears. “No!” He reaches out to swipe the egg or the plate away, but thankfully thinks better of it. His sleeve dangles dangerously close to the cheese. “Alright, I admit it. I don’t actually know how to cook. Cook takes care of that, and if I get impatient I just conjure myself some food. Happy?”

Lothar isn’t sure what he wants to focus on first. He named the golem Cook? He can _conjure_ food? He looks absolutely hilarious, all flushed like that?

His eyes land on Khadgar’s plate. It’s empty. “Why haven’t you eaten?” he says instead. Khadgar jerks.

“Oh. Right.” He takes a loaf of bread and starts picking it apart. Lothar doesn’t look away until he puts a piece in his mouth. Khadgar rolls his eyes at him. “I forgot, that’s all.”

“How do you forget to eat?” Lothar says disbelievingly. “The food’s right in front of you.”

Khadgar glares at him. He opens his mouth to reply, then stops. A strange expression flits across his face, so fast Lothar could almost he believe he had imagined it. “It happens,” is all he says, his jaw jutting out in a sullen pout. He pops another piece of bread in his mouth, chewing slowly.

Not, _‘I’m full’_ or, _‘I’m not hungry’._

_‘I forgot’._

Lothar frowns.

Khadgar’s expression is mulish. Lothar struggles with the urge to argue, then lets it go with an exasperated sigh. Well, he certainly doesn’t look like he’s starving himself – there’s still baby fat on his cheeks, for crying out loud. And Lothar is not his nanny.

The next time he looks up, Khadgar is staring at him again. Lothar has to bite his cheek to keep the first snide remark that comes to mind from coming out.

He doesn’t need it. Khadgar reddens and ducks his head, turning his attention back to tearing his poor loaf to pieces. That makes Lothar’s eyebrows rise for a different reason.

_Well_ then. He tucks that suspicion away into the back of his mind. It’s amusing, sure. Flattering, certainly. But Lothar has too much on his mind to think of anything of the sort right now.

He focuses his attention on eating. It isn’t hard. Blob has gone, disappearing elsewhere when it’s clear the two humans aren’t going to pay attention to it anytime soon. There’s nothing to distract Lothar as he finishes three loaves, two eggs, and several bites of cheese, and still wish he could have eaten more. He washes down his food with the wine, then burps. Khadgar wrinkles his nose at him; Lothar just smirks.

He leans back in his seat, content to watch Khadgar tear his food apart and take bird bites out of it for now. The feeling of being warm, sated, and comfortable is new.

He feels… safe.

He can’t stop comparing it to life back in Stormwind. Under this golden light, surrounded by the white walls and the greenery seen through every window, the cold snow feels so far away.

But the memory remains. His right hand is enough of a reminder.

He looks at Khadgar, untouched by the hardships he knows are outside these walls. The boy pops a piece of bread in his mouth and licks his finger clean. The magical sunlight streams through the window, adding a soft glow to his pale skin.

The last thing Lothar wants is to break the pleasant mood between them. But the clock is ticking.

He curls his hands together, the left over the other. “Khadgar.” The mage looks up. “I need your help.”

“Yes?” Khadgar looks up, casually clueless. But there’s a flicker in his eyes, like something hardening, bracing itself – a flicker of dread.

Lothar takes a deep breath. “We need a way to defeat Gul’dan. With the Guardian dead, you’re the only person on Azeroth who knows anything about magic. If there’s something, anything you can think of… even an account of when you encountered Gul’dan would help.”

Dark eyes stare at him with wide-eyed incredulity. “You- what?” Khadgar puts down the bread. His voice is bitter. “What use is information over ten years old?”

Lothar feels his eyebrows drawing together.  He leans forward, his voice gentler, less accusing, but still just as determined. “It’s better than nothing,” he says. “When it comes to defeating Gul’dan, anything is better than nothing.”

Khadgar’s hands clench where they’re resting on the table. “The Guardian couldn’t defeat Gul’dan,” he says. His eyes flicker to his plate, then back to Lothar again. “What makes you think you can?”

Lothar can’t help the bite edging into his tone. “Someone has to.”

Khadgar huffs, a short, mocking sound. “He’ll kill you,” he says bluntly. Again, his eyes are on Lothar, yet seems to be looking beyond him at something Lothar cannot see. “You wouldn’t even be able to touch him.”

Lothar feels his temper bubbling to the surface. His hands tighten into fists.  “Easy for you to say, living here in your own personal paradise,” Lothar snaps.

Khadgar straightens in his seat, cheeks flushed with anger. “Don’t you dare judge me,” he hisses. “You know _nothing_ about what I’ve been through.” His eyes glitter like shards of broken glass.

“So _tell me_.”

They sit there, glaring at each other. Lothar wants to reach over and shake the mage until he sees sense. A voice in the back of his mind tells him to try something else, in an exasperated tone that sounds a lot like his sister. Lothar bites down on the urge to growl.

“Look,” he says slowly. He uncurls his hands and presses them flat against the table in an effort to ground himself. “I know it seems impossible. But I’m not giving up.”

He thinks of Llane behind him, and Callan ahead.

He _can’t_ give up _._

“The least I can do is try.” He looks at Khadgar, trying to express his resolve in every word. “This is _Karazhan._ If there’s nothing that can help us in your memory, there must be something that can help us here. It’s not like anything’s going to happen if I just sit around anyway,” he adds, his voice dropping with a touch of sarcasm.

“And what will you do if you fail?” Khadgar says, his voice low. “What if there’s nothing here for you?”

“Then I’ll go back to Stormwind and find a different way,” Lothar says, with a finality that belies the dread that comes with such a thought. He doesn’t think of what he’ll do if he came all this way, only to come back with nothing. He doesn’t know any other way to get Callan back. And he’d rather die than fail to get Callan back.

Khadgar stares at him. Lothar can’t tell what he’s thinking. He looks conflicted, his eyes darting all over Lothar’s face. His knuckles are white where his fists peek out of his sleeves.

_“Please.”_

Lothar hadn’t meant to say that. It just slipped out. There is something in those wary, molten brown eyes watching him that makes him want to soften them with trust. And want to trust them in return. Unfortunately, words aren’t something that can be taken back, no matter how much he wants to.

But it works. Khadgar’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. Lothar’s breath lodges in his throat.

At last, he speaks.

“Alright. I’ll help you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is relevant ;) 
> 
> We're nearing the last prewritten chapter and I'm _not_ happy, because I don't see myself finishing another chapter anytime soon and I don't want to leave this fic in the dust. I love it. It's gorgeous. It will be. But it's not finished and I don't know how long that's going to take, so here we go.


	5. Interlude I

Garona unrolls from her coiled position on the floor. Her knives, newly sharpened, flash in the torchlight as she spins them in her hands and shoves them back into their sheaths. Human moans and wails echo across the stone walls, a constant cacophony that forms the Horde’s new taste in sweet, sweet music. She passes the cage that houses the hazel-eyed child without a second glance. She hears his breath hitch, like it does every time she passes by him; fear and hatred warring with every glance at her pale-green skin and leather-wrapped knife handles.

So much like his father.

Her boot crunches through the remains of last week’s fuel. She doesn’t flinch at the sharp crack, nor at the misshapen remains of the skull left afterward. Walking through the throne room of the Temple of the Damned meant getting used to the subpar housekeeping its master preferred. Namely, the reminder of his power scattered across the floor.

Gul’dan is waiting for her at the throne.

She feels the cold touch of metal on her neck. The weight of chains tugging at her arms.

“Well?” he asks.

She presses a fist against her chest and looks him straight in the eye. “Anduin Lothar has disappeared from the castle,” she says coolly, in a voice that wouldn’t carry. “Blackhand is searching for him as we speak.”

Blackhand would take any excuse to claw Lothar’s head off his shoulders.

“And how long has it been since you discovered this?” His voice is a whisper and a roar. Like a death rattle, but for his enemies.

“A day.” The hawk had arrived midway through their journey back to the Temple, caravan of sacrifices in tow. Not that she needs that excuse. Gul’dan has never had the patience for excuses.

Glowing orbs of green fire narrow in her direction. Again, she feels metal, like a noose promising a fate worse than death. She doesn’t dare breathe, and yet knows she must because after ten years of doing this, even the smallest sign matters if she wants to face Gul’dan and get away alive.

More than alive. _Trusted_.

As much as she is, anyway.

“Where is he headed?”

The moans have quieted. For the captives, any news is good news in this godforsaken place. Foolish. They will only attract Gul’dan’s attention this way. Though it seems even the curiosity of humans cannot be bested by despair.

Once, someone had taught her it meant hope.

“We believe he is headed for the mountains to the south,” is her reply.

Gul’dan tilts his head, considering her. Slowly, his lips move, stretching at the cracked and brittle skin and forming a horrifying snarl that sends the wails racketing up again.

“ _Karazhan,_ ” he hisses.

She hears a breath hitch. Her body is tuned to it – _has_ tuned to it, ever since she discovered the familiar face in the mass of meat crammed into a wooden cage. She, too, cannot help the twitch at the name. It has been years since she last heard it, but still she hears the word as it ought to be heard:

Hope.

“What do you wish of me?” says the Assassin of the Horde.

 **“ _Find him._ ”** Gul’dan’s voice lowers into a rumble that vibrates through the bones of every creature in the room. His eyes flare, his magic rising with his fury. **“ _I don’t care if he’s dead or alive. Bring him to me_.”**

One of the wails rises into a terrified shriek. Without looking, he raises a hand and drains the woman, until she is left gasping for air in the midst of her screaming companions. The casual use of Fel raises the hair on Garona’s skin. It takes everything she has not to let her hands curl into fists.

A colder, more practical side of her whispers he is wasting meat. An advantage with a price. But if she waits until he has no meat left to consume, there would be no Azeroth left to save.

“Understood.” She pounds her fist against her chest once more.

She turns, her mind already on what she must do. To make it to Karazhan from Stormwind, it would take Lothar at least three days on horseback to reach the tower. Unless he had been in Goldshire when he received the news, which means two days would be enough. Normally, the snow would slow down even the most determined of riders, but if he had passed near Elwynn Forest…

**“Wait.”**

Garona freezes. That is not a voice to be disobeyed. Slowly, she turns, keeping her hands well away from her knives. No matter how much she wants to grab them.

Gul’dan is smiling.

“Prepare a hunting party,” he says, the Fel receding from his voice at last. “We’re going to Stormwind. It’s high time we imposed upon the widowed queen once more, no?”

“What?” Garona blurts, the sudden change in attitude catching her off guard. Those Fel-blighted eyes snap to her direction. Thinking quickly, she adds, “I don’t understand. Aren’t we looking for Lothar?”

Gul’dan rises to his feet, taking his staff from where it leaned by his throne. The skull jammed on the top grins with malice, an array of hanging bones clicking with every move. He steps down, striding towards Garona. He towers over her petite form.

She does not step back. She may be smaller, but it is her very size that lets her kill with such lethal efficiency. It took a while, but it seems even the Horde can learn to respect skill over size. That is what she keeps in mind when she tilts her head back to look Gul’dan in the eye.

“ _If_ Anduin Lothar survives,” Gul’dan says, “Then he will return to his sister in Stormwind.” He states it bluntly, as easy as ‘snow falls from the sky’ and ‘water freezes in the cold’.

He isn’t wrong.

Garona, very carefully, does not look at the child in one side of the room. “And then?”

The rings in Gul’dan’s tusks glint in the light as he bares his teeth in a feral grin. “Then we will show what happens to those who resist the might of the Horde.”

“And the Guardian?” She forces the words out of her mouth, her throat dry. “What if he finds him? What do we do?”

“The boy will be no problem,” says Gul’dan, already turning towards the throne. His arrogance, of facing his back to her, is stunning. She does not move.

“He will never leave that place while I am still alive.”

* * *

 

Garona strides down the hall, her footsteps soundless on the stone floor. The musty walls feel too close, the moaning wind making the space feel even smaller. Designs that would have been breathtaking in the sunlight lurk ominously in the darkness.

Her mind is whirling. Already, she is listing the clans that could to add to their party. The Thunderlord clan is camped near Northshire Abbey. They can pass by and pick up some warriors on their way to Stormwind. With the rest of the Blackrock warriors left in the Temple, they would be enough to make a party of eighteen.

She turns the corner. Orgrim Doomhammer looks up, not even breaking stride as he passes her by. His chest is bare, save for the leather strap holding his hammer to his back. His skin is a few shades darker than hers, but not as green as the flames dancing on the torches.

Their eyes meet. The Frostwolf chieftain nods.

Garona tilts her head, a shallow dip of acknowledgement.

It’s barely a moment. A pair of allies passing in the hallway. But as she walks away, Garona feels the remembered touch of metal around her neck loosen a little.

So. Lothar made it as far as Deadwind Pass. Good enough.

She changes direction, heading towards her private quarters. She needs to warn Taria about Gul’dan’s incoming visit. They may not be able to do anything about it, but at least it wouldn’t be a surprise.

There is nothing more Garona can do. She can buy time, that’s all. Hours. Maybe a day.

The rest is in Lothar’s hands.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end of Searching for Spring... for now. I'm not sure when I'll update next, if ever, because the next part has seriously been giving me problems and it doesn't know where to go. Unfortunately it's the most important part because it's supposed to be where Lothar and Khadgar's relationship develops and The Plot Thickens. For now I'll leave everything I've written here, and hope my perfectionist streak can take a hike long enough for me to wring out the second third of the story and get back to y'all.
> 
> Thanks so much for the support you guys <3 I love everyone who's commented, sent support/nagging, etc. I'm looking at you, Eria, Blue, Demi, my best cheerleaders lmao.

**Author's Note:**

> credits:  
> Thanks to Steph and Gab for the initial idea that dragged me by the balls to try to write my first major epic fic production. I'll do my best to take it to the finish line.  
> Thank you, Liri and Aly for betaing the initial draft, and Eria for the first chapter.  
> Major thanks to [Blue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueMonkey/pseuds/BlueMonkey) for being overall beta (alpha beta? HAHA), and I'm going to toss in a major fic rec here too. Her liontrust fics are _the_ bomb, especially her [sci-fi au](https://archiveofourown.org/series/537097) which I love to bits.


End file.
